Is there a male menopause? As a man in his mid-50s, I have recently become aware of getting older. Increasing age has had a curious effect on my psyche. I am noticing, on an almost daily basis, that I am thinking, feeling and behaving in ways that are starkly different from my youth and earlier adulthood. I will share these experiences on this blog and hope others will join me in describing their own age-related quirks and oddities. I can't be the only one at this "funny age", can I??

Saturday, 15 October 2016

It is often said that when you live with the same person
over many years you grow more and more alike. In our house this phenomenon is
most apparent in regards to our newly-fitted shower cubicle.

Mrs Jones is rather obsessive when it comes to cleaning our
house. Following the recent fitting of our spanking new bathroom, it was no
surprise to find her devoting three hours each week to scrubbing the glass and
tiles so as to maintain their sparkle. Her urge to cleanse was, she told me,
mainly activated by her noticing water stains on the sides of the shower unit.
To counter these triggers, she bought a squeegee – those plastic-handled
implements with the rubber edge, commonly used by window cleaners. She told me
that she uses this squeegee to remove the drips from all four sides of the
cubicle (two tiled, two glass) immediately after each shower. Strategically, she
left the device hanging from one of the bathroom fittings.

Immediately following my daily rinse, I now feel compelled
to replicate my wife’s cleaning behaviour. If anyone was unfortunate enough to
spy on my after-shower routine in the cubicle, this is what they would witness:

STEP 1 – Turn off the sprinkler and pick up the squeegee.

STEP 2 – Standing on tiptoes, dripping wet, stretch and
place the squeegee at the top of one glass wall, and slide it downwards to the
floor in one smooth, squeaky stroke, while being mesmerised by the strangely
addictive droplets of water toing and froing in all directions as if to evade
capture.

STEP 3 – Upon reaching the crouch position at the bottom of
the stroke, I contemplate how my scrotum swings dangerously close to the shower
floor; another few years and I fear my balls will slap against the plastic base
like two sloppy dollops of Play-doh.

STEP 4: Repeat the above, stretching up and down as if in an
exercise class, until all of the glass wall is completely free of rogue
droplets.

STEP 5: Turn 90 degrees and follow the same procedure with
tiled wall only to find that, as I bend, my arse cheeks leave a soggy, two-crescent
imprint on the previously cleansed glass which then requires more strokes of my
squeegee.

STEPS 6 to 12: Repeat all the above, involving a psychedelic
kaleidoscope of gangly bits and hairy rump.

So each morning I spend a half-hour in the bathroom: five
minutes to shower and 25 minutes to clean the damn thing. But it does continue
to sparkle.